Nanine

Summary

"This Comedy is called in the French Nanine, ou le Préjugé Vaincu (Nanine, or Prejudice Overcome). It is written, as we are told in the title-page, in verses of ten syllables. The absurdity of comedies in rhyme I have already remarked. The original begins thus: Il faut parler, il faut, Monsieur le Comte, Vous expliquer nettement sur mon Compte. The reader cannot but observe, what villainous rhymes Comte and Compte are, and perhaps will more readily forgive my reducing this comedy into plain prose. It was produced in 1749."-Voltaire Wilder Publications is a green publisher. All of our books are printed to order. This reduces waste and helps us keep prices low while greatly reducing our impact on the environment.

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Nanine - Voltaire

1749.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Count D’Olban, the Baroness De L’Orme.

Baroness: In short, my lord, it is time to come to an explanation with regard to this affair; we are no children; therefore, let us talk freely: you have been a widower for these two years past, and I, a widow about as long: the lawsuit in which we were unfortunately engaged, and which gave us both so much uneasiness, is at an end; and all our animosities, I hope, now buried with those who were the causes of them.

Count: I am glad of it; for lawsuits were always my aversion.

Baroness: And am not I as hateful as a lawsuit?

Count: You, madam?

Baroness: Yes, I, sir: for these two years past we have lived together, with freedom, as relations and friends; the ties of blood, taste, and interest, seem to unite us, and to point out a more intimate connection.

Count: Interest, madam? make use of some better term, I beseech you.

Baroness: That, sir, I cannot; but with grief I find, your inconstant heart no longer considers me in any other light than as your relative.

Count: I do not wear the appearance, madam, of a trifler.

Baroness: You wear the appearance, sir, of a perjured villain.

Count: [Aside.] Ha! what’s this?

Baroness: Yes, sir: you know the suit my husband began against you, to recover my estate, was, by agreement, to have been terminated by a marriage; a marriage you told me, of choice; you are engaged to me, you know you are; and he who defers the execution of his promise seldom means to perform it.

Count: You know, I wait for my mother’s consent.

Baroness: A doting old woman: well, sir, and what then?

Count: I love and respect her yet.

Baroness: But I do not, sir. Come, come, these are idle, frivolous excuses for your unpardonable falsehood: you wait not for her, or for anybody; perfidious, ungrateful man!

Count: Who told you so, madam, and whence all this violence of passion? who told you so? whence comes your information, madam?

Baroness: Who told me? yourself, yourself. Your words, your manner, your air, your whole behavior, put on on purpose to affront me: it shocks me to see it: act in another manner, or find some better excuses for your conduct: can you think me blind to the shameful, unworthy passion that directs you, a passion for the lowest, meanest object? you have deceived me, sir, basely deceived me.

Count: ’Tis false, I cannot deceive; dissimulation is no part of my character. I own to you, there was a time when you were agreeable to me; I admired you, and flattered myself that I should have found in you a treasure to make amends for that which heaven had deprived me of; I hoped in this sweet asylum to have tasted the fruits of a peaceful and happy union: but you have found out the means to destroy your own power. Love, as I told you long since, has two quivers: one filled with darts, tipped with the purest flame, which inspires the soul with tender feelings, refines our taste and sentiments, enlivens our affection, and enhances our pleasures; the other is full of cruel arrows, that wound our hearts with quarrels, jealousy, and suspicion, bring on coldness and indifference, and remove the warmth of passion to make room for disgust and satiety: these, madam, are the darts which you have drawn forth, against us both, and yet you expect that I should love.

Baroness: There, indeed, I own myself in the wrong: I ought not to expect it: it is